PEACE ON EARTH GOOD WILL TO DOGSPART IIf you don’t like Christmas stories, don’t read this one!And if you don’t like dogs I don’t know just what to advise you to do!For I warn you perfectly frankly that I am distinctly pro-dog anddistinctly pro-Christmas, and would like to bring to this little storywhatever whiff of fir-balsam I can cajole from the make-believe forestin my typewriter, and every glitter of tinsel, smudge of toy candle,crackle of wrapping paper, that my particular brand of brain and inkcan conjure up on a single keyboard! And very large-sized dogs shallromp through every page! And the mercury shiver perpetually in thevicinity of zero! And every foot of earth be crusty-brown and barewith no white snow at all till the very last moment when you’d justabout given up hope! And all the heart of the story is very,–oh_very_ young!For purposes of propriety and general historical authenticity thereare of course parents in the story. And one or two other oldishpersons. But they all go away just as early in the narrative as I canmanage it.–Are obliged to go away!Yet lest you find in this general combination of circumstances somesinister threat of audacity, let me conventionalize the story at onceby opening it at that most conventional of all conventionalChristmas-story hours,–the Twilight of Christmas Eve.Nuff said?–Christmas Eve, you remember? Twilight? Awfully coldweather? And somebody very young?Now for the story itself!After five blustering, wintry weeks of village speculation and gossipthere was of course considerable satisfaction in being the first tosolve the mysterious holiday tenancy of the Rattle-Pane House.Breathless with excitement Flame Nourice telephoned the news from thevillage post-office. From a pedestal of boxes fairly bulging withred-wheeled go-carts, one keen young elbow rammed for balance into agay glassy shelf of stick-candy, green tissue garlands ticklingacross her cheek, she sped the message to her mother.O Mother-Funny! triumphed Flame. I’ve found out who’s Christmasingat the Rattle-Pane House!–It’s a red-haired setter dog with one blackear! And he’s sitting at the front gate this moment! Superintendingthe unpacking of the furniture van! And I’ve named him Lopsy!Why, Flame; how–absurd! gasped her mother. In consideration of thefact that Flame’s mother had run all the way from the icy-footedchicken yard to answer the telephone it shows distinctly what stuffshe was made of that she gasped nothing else.And that Flame herself re-telephoned within the half hour toacknowledge her absurdity shows equally distinctly what stuff _she_was made of! It was from the summit of a crate of holly-wreaths thatshe telephoned this time.
